


Feast

by skivvysupreme



Series: The Wax Verse [8]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood Drinking, M/M, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3408119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skivvysupreme/pseuds/skivvysupreme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three Thanksgivings in the life (and undeath) of Kurt Hummel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feast

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place around "Mattress," "Special Education," and "I Kissed A Girl," canon-wise.
> 
> (This series is written out of order. If you'd like a chronological list, I'm on tumblr under the same name, and have a masterpost for this verse which notes the story order!)

_16 years_

Kurt wasn’t sure what to expect from Thanksgiving.

He and his dad were skipping the extended Hummel festivities, as some cousin Kurt couldn’t remember meeting more than twice suggested hosting the family dinner at her home in Missouri. And that was just fine with Kurt, because he had no interest in trekking out to Misery to forcibly mingle with people he didn’t much like, only to seclude himself somewhere as soon as he got the chance.

Burt had been the one to suggest they stay in Lima, and admittedly, he felt no more guilt about it than Kurt did. He’d grown tired of the not-so-quiet comments, the “just sayin’, Burt, it’s probably too late, but you need to watch that one” asides that had become increasingly common as Kurt got older.

Kurt had only come out to his dad two months ago, and the holiday seemed like prime time to get to know each other a little better. They’d been talking more, not just occupying the same space but really living in it together, so this Thanksgiving had the potential to be less awkward than some in the past.

Kurt was already in the kitchen when his dad came downstairs. Half-prepared dishes in thick glass cookware covered the counter space, waiting for their turn in the oven. Green bean casserole sat in one and sweet potatoes in another, while the stuffed turkey sat in a roasting pan. Kurt’s iPod played Britney Spears from the dock on the kitchen table, and he shimmied to the beat as he pinched around the edges of a pie crust.

“Whaddya got there, Kurt?”

Kurt grinned and wiped flour-covered fingers on his blue apron before reaching to turn the music down a little. “Triple-berry pie,” he said proudly. “Blueberry, blackberry, and raspberry, in a sugar-glazed crust.”

Burt shook his head, the sweet fruit scent dusting off memories of family holidays that seemed to belong to a different family. “Your mom used to make this. You remember?”

“Yeah. I found her recipe,” Kurt said, and his smile went smaller and deeper at the same time. “When you – when you cleared out my hope chest… It was stuck at the bottom. I thought I’d lost it. I’d been building stuff up in there for so long that I totally missed it.”

Burt winced at the mention of the hope chest, the tiara incident not yet far enough behind them to dismiss, but he was glad some good had come of it. He could see little Kurt so clearly, following his mom around in the kitchen, helping however he could and wanting to know how everything worked. Not just learning how to cook, but how to combine flavors so they made sense, so that he could invent new things. Kurt had a knack for understanding how things went together, just as Burt always hoped he would. (Though if those things were foods or fabric patterns or notes in a chord or whatever else, instead of, say, parts in a car, that was just fine with him, too.)

“It seems simple enough, but it’s the syrup that has to be precise,” Kurt said, picking up a nearby spoon that was covered in purple goo. He licked it clean, humming along to the music in the background for a moment. “Mom always got it so that it smoothed out the tartness of the berries by the time it all baked together. It starts out and you think it’s too sweet, but when it all settles, and it’s against the glazed crust, it’s perfect.”

Burt leaned over the counter, inspecting the pie-in-progress, and said, “It looks great, Kurt. It looks just like it did when she made it.”

Kurt’s whole face scrunched up, blue eyes squinting as his dimples turned cavernous, and he said, “Good.”

The moment of truth came hours later, after they’d had their near-fill of Kurt’s flawless menu and were sat at the kitchen table with the finished pie between them. Kurt carefully slid a knife into the center and cut out two modestly-sized pieces. He was so nervous. If this hadn’t turned out perfectly, it wouldn’t be his mother’s triple-berry pie. No matter how close he’d gotten, if he hadn’t _nailed_ her recipe, the memory would be off, and his mother wouldn’t return to him the way she did whenever he went into her old dresser.

Burt put his fork to his mouth – Kurt watched him with bated breath and his own fork hovering over his slice of pie – and groaned as he started to chew. “Holy crap, Kurt. It’s just like I remember it.”

Kurt quickly took a bite himself, and as the sweet/tart/warm combination of flavors hit his tongue, he sighed with relief. He glanced at his dad, and knew they were thinking the same thing: It was like she had put the pie on the table herself.  Sitting there together, eating the dessert that she’d always saved as a treat for special occasions, they felt closer to her (and to each other) than they had in a very long time.

*****

_17 years, or 7 weeks_

Kurt stared down at his mother’s triple-berry pie, glazed and garnished to perfection, and knew he could not eat it.

It had been almost two months since Kurt was last able to eat human food.

In the week following his transformation into… _this_ , Kurt had experimented with food, both bloody-raw and cooked. All his attempts made him nauseous, and by the end of the week, his body rejected it outright and the food went back the way it came. His taste buds were no longer tuned to sweet, salty, or bitter; Kurt knew only fat, glucose, and iron. He could pick up on hormone changes, sickness, things that were off in the blood. The blood thinners his dad had been on directly after his heart attack, for example, tasted so _wrong_ that Kurt had asked to only feed from Finn and Carole until Burt finished his prescription.

His body only wanted blood, but Kurt remembered how his mom’s holiday pie tasted, and how it made him feel closer to her. Unfortunately, the memory was enough to fuel his appetite, but not enough to satisfy it. 

“Everything looks amazing, Kurt!” Carole said, gazing at the dining room table with an arm on Finn’s shoulder to keep him from running in and scarfing down everything he could get his hands on. The red tablecloth was barely visible under the dishes crammed into the space.

“Thank you,” Kurt answered, standing back from the table with his hands clasped in front of him. He had insisted on handling the menu for his first Thanksgiving with his new family. _You feed me all the time, so let me feed you_ , he’d told them. Not that one nice dinner would ever be enough to cover what they’d given him, but no one argued, so there he was. Giving thanks.

Really, Kurt just wanted the kitchen to himself. He needed to keep busy, keep control of something, because Thanksgiving only illuminated everything that had been taken from him along with his heartbeat. It wasn’t that he was _hungry_ , exactly, since he’d fed from his dad that morning. But, to Kurt, Thanksgiving was nothing without the meal. Kurt loved the hours of preparation it took to create something balanced and beautiful, something that made for a shared experience at the table. Food brought family together.

The problem was that “food,” as Kurt now knew it, had become something that made him feel completely isolated instead. It was blood. It was something he needed, something that tasted good to him but wasn’t really enjoyed, something that never made him feel full because he refused to take more than the minimum from his family each morning.

Kurt’s new best friend, Blaine, texted him right when he was finishing the sugar-butter glaze that went on top of the pie crust: _Happy Thanksgiving, Kurt!!! :D We’re about to eat but can I call you later?_

To which Kurt replied: _Same to you :) Yeah I’ll text you when they start watching football. Unless you’ll be busy watching too…_

_Never too busy to call you, silly. <3_

Well, there was finally something for Kurt to look forward to. But, in the meantime, there was a meal to be had. And so, not starving by any means but nowhere near satisfied, Kurt sat at the table with his family, sipping from a glass of water as his brother decimated his plate and his parents hummed and moaned their way through letting Kurt know how good everything was.

“No, I don’t mind,” he’d said. “I want you to enjoy everything. Don’t hold back on my account. I’m fine.”

The triple-berry pie was a hit, as it always had been. Kurt watched his dad, his stomach clenching in phantom craving. The look on Burt’s face was one of fond nostalgia and pure pleasure as the pie melted in his mouth. But Kurt couldn’t have it, so he couldn’t feel it.

Kurt remembered exactly how that triple-berry pie tasted, and though that made everything worse, he knew that another piece of his mother would be lost to him if he couldn’t.

*****

_18 years, or 1 year and two months_

“Blaine!”

Kurt launched himself at his boyfriend and wrapped his arms around his neck.

Blaine laughed, nuzzling into the side of his face as he walked them through the front door. “Happy Thanksgiving, Kurt.”

“You too. There’s still food, if you want some. Finn ate all the sweet potatoes, but there’s still turkey and stuffing. And pie.” Kurt tossed his head towards the kitchen with a little shrug. It had been another Thanksgiving with Kurt working at the stove but not participating at the table.

“No, I’m good, thank you. How are you doing?” Blaine asked. He’d made sure he was full before he got to the Hummel-Hudson home so that he wouldn’t be tempted to eat when Kurt couldn’t. He knew how difficult this holiday was for him; he remembered how much Kurt had struggled last year, but kept to himself until Blaine called.

_“I’m not hungry, but I still—I thought I wouldn’t be, but it’s like mind over matter. Maybe, just for a minute, I could—”_

_“Please don’t, you’ll make yourself sick.”_

_“I know, I know. I just wish I’d known last year. I would’ve… eaten differently, or something.”_

_“Kurt, do you want me to come over? You shouldn’t be alone.”_

_“…No. There’s nothing you can do about it. I’ll be fine.”_

Kurt shrugged again. “Are you sure you don’t want anything? We have plenty, I could warm up some—”

Blaine shook his head and pulled Kurt close to him again, squeezing his waist. He kissed Kurt’s ear and repeated, “Kurt. How are you doing?” He didn’t smell particularly stressed, or like he was starving or anything, but Blaine knew what this day meant to him.

Kurt shook his head, so Blaine took his hand, stopped in the living room to say hello to Burt, Carole, and Finn, and guided them upstairs.

“Kurt, do you want something to eat?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m over that. Really, I’m used to it now. And there’s nothing for me to eat, anyway.”

“Sure there is,” Blaine said, untying his bowtie, unbuttoning his polo, and sliding his cardigan off his shoulders. He pushed Kurt’s bedroom door so that it was only open about three inches.

Kurt sat slowly on his bed, a small smile spreading across his face. “I’ve already eaten today.”

“It’s Thanksgiving, babe. Everyone eats more than they strictly need to. You shouldn’t be left out.” Blaine crawled onto the bed and Kurt moved back so that Blaine could lie down, like they normally did it. But Blaine shook his head and put a hand on Kurt’s chest so that he would lie down instead. “It’s your turn to relax. Okay?”

Kurt blinked up at him, his eyes going black, and nodded, resting his head against the pillows. Blaine straddled him and leaned down so they were chest-to-chest. His body, always warmer than usual, pressed heat into Kurt’s cold skin through their shirts, and the feeling made that empty ache in his stomach fade into the background a little. “Blaine— god, you smell so good.”

“Mmm, you do, too.”

“I’m—wait, honey. We haven’t said what we’re thankful for yet.”

Blaine lifted himself a little so he could look him in the eye, and waited.

Kurt took a deep breath, taking in Blaine’s wolfy, pine-needle scent and letting it fill him with familiarity and home and every other sensation that Blaine supplied when they were together. He always made him feel so _connected_. “I love you and I can’t imagine this past year without you. So… I’m thankful that you’re you, and that you’re here with me. You’re part of my family now. My… pack.”

Kurt added the last part to appeal to Blaine’s werewolf instincts, and he was not disappointed; Blaine leaned back down and kissed him, slipping his tongue into Kurt’s mouth to coax out his fangs. He pulled away when he finally felt the points extend, as Kurt’s mouth dropped open with a gasp. “Kurt, you can’t imagine what you mean to me. I’m so thankful we found each other. I’d do anything for you.” He nuzzled his way down Kurt’s jaw and moved his face to the side to give Kurt access to his neck.

“ _Anything_ for you,” Blaine repeated, guiding one of Kurt’s hands to the back of his neck as he cradled a hand under Kurt’s head to push him closer.

“Anything for my mate.”

Kurt’s fangs found their favorite spot on Blaine’s throat, and Blaine’s heart started to pound faster.

“My _alpha_.”

The fangs sank into Blaine, and Blaine sank on top of Kurt. Kurt’s hands held him firmly in place as he drank, and Kurt moaned against his neck.

“Yeah… take all you want. Take until you’re full, baby.”

It was an odd feeling when they laid pressed together like this, but Kurt always got just the tiniest bit flushed when he fed from Blaine. Blaine felt him warm up a little – colder than an average human would be, but still, he was warmer.

Right when Blaine was starting to feel that telltale lightheadedness that said they should probably stop, Kurt pulled away, licking gently over the spot to clean and close it. “You taste amazing. As always,” Kurt panted, running his tongue around inside his own mouth.

Blaine didn’t even bother trying to get up, knowing Kurt would immediately roll them over to check that Blaine was okay. And he did, placing Blaine on his side so that he could spoon up behind him.

“Thank you so much. I haven’t felt like this since… before. The emptiness never goes away, unless I feed from you.”

“That’s ‘cause you can take more from me, baby. And I taste better.” Blaine replied sleepily. Between his own pending food coma and the blood loss, Blaine was ready to tap out.

 Kurt sighed into the back of his neck, feeling warm and happy with his mate starting to fall asleep in his arms. He was starting to doze off himself. “True… Happy Thanksgiving, Blaine.”

“Mmm… Happy Thanksgiving, Kurt.”


End file.
